All posts by fatimavalentine

Los Angeles, California, USA based creative professional concentrating on film, photography and written art with an emphasis on activism and advocacy.


I remember when Octobers were cold.  I remember when Octobers were foggy and gloomy creating mystical visions.  The wind had an icy chill and was strong.  We wore sweaters, stockings and gloves.

I remember when Octobers were cold and rainy.  We drank hot cocoa and stared outside wet windows from underneath fuzzy blankets.  We heard the steady tap from our sofa wondering if it was just the rain or a ghoulish visitor coming in from the fog.

I remember when Octobers were cold and festive.  We used to put stickers on windows letting all the little ones know it was Halloween here!  “Come in, we have treats for you!”  We used to have mechanical spooks about the house, neon colored arachnids that squeaked and a cauldron full of chemical candy.  We had red lights and black lights, strobe lights and no lights to add to the spooky ambiance.

I remember when Octobers were cold but now they are warm.



News and Informed Publics

The United States is a constitutional republic and representative democracy.  If it is to avert tyranny, its publics must be informed.  Lack of truth and lack of information is just as perilous as apathy.   Unfortunately for us, at least in my experience, there are blockades towards a proper education, complete information, and truth.  It is the responsibility of Federal government to provide a solid education and it is the responsibility of every citizen to self-educate when government no longer provides.  Apathy or hardship preventing action or both combined are dangers to freedom.  When loss of truth, lack of ideas, and absence of logic are prevalent, opportunity to destroy a republic and/or a democracy are available.  It will not be sudden and many will not see the signs.  It is important to be vigilant during these times.  Tyranny will chip away at freedom and liberty in a manner in which the populous will be content with their state.

Freedom does not guarantee safety, perhaps that is the most threatening idea against it. How willing are you to sacrifice your freedom for safety?

One cannot think of one’s freedom absent of others as it is common for an individual’s freedom to infringe on the freedom of others.  This awareness should breed discussion about tolerance–sacrificing one’s own comfort for the freedom of others.  This is another discussion, I digress.

Our technocratic world is shattered by the war against truth.  Who will prevail?  I am on the side of science and logic, not profits and losses, not stubbornness, not ignorance, not intolerance.   We have relied on sources of truth that no longer value the importance of the protection of truth and its relation to freedom.  The news media has been conquered by sophistry and profit, no longer are they defenders of democracy.  Were they ever?  More importantly, who can we trust for truth and what will be the basis of truth?  Will it be logic?  Will it be science?  Will it be morals?  Will it be what appears to be the easy solution no matter how devoid of truth?

On Being An Intellectual [an original poem]

i wish i was a man
i wish i was a tall man
with sunken tired eyes
a thin long scarf
a suit
a pensive aloof gaze
and a book to read aloud
with a smooth deep voice and relaxed tones
would you listen to me then

♥ · ♥

i wish i was a man
with expensive shoes and tattered socks
my steps echoing on the sidewalk
passing shops
a light gray sky
the wind mussing my hair
would you watch me then

♥ · ♥

i wish i was a man
blue eyes
and scruff
long fingers not too fat
a secure stance
would you…

Personify the Depression

Free Verse

There’s blood
There’s blood everywhere!
I cry as I sit in darkness
in this despair
I am powerless
fighting to be in control
so desperately wishing I could lose control
I want to lose all control
run away so far away
your rules and your regulations
your peace and your structure
your laws and your business
your pseudo ethics
your fake love
your artificial kindness
your lazy intelligence
and your rash logic

I’m throwing in the towel
I am done
done with it all…

but no matter how far I run
you will find me
and control me
and my children
so I must find a way to destroy you.

The chair was blood stained

Free Verse

The chair was blood stained
Pieces of flesh stuck to the arms
Drip drip drip
Echoing through the room
The walls were rusted brown
Made of steel
Bolted together years ago
One light hanging from the middle of the ceiling
Its shade rusted as well, green and brown
The silence was piercing
The door was closed

The vastness of sorrow is not to be contemplated

Free Verse

The vastness of sorrow is not to be contemplated

I wore her ring
My finger, though young, has the wrinkles of time
I dressed in the color of night
My body weak from this life
I no longer care to feel this pain
I no longer care to feel anything at all

I remember her words
I forgot her actions
Those being the more painful of the two
I used to try to forget
After so many years of doing so
Now I struggle to remember

I held the water in my hand


I held the water in my hand
It was cool and free
Like a breeze
A cool breeze that chills the skin yet refreshes the senses

He was a king
A king in my realm
Unleashing the sense
An all out war
A war of a lifetime

The countryside was torn
Tattered and burnt
Homes no longer existed
The grass was blood stained
The mountains were aflame
Creatures had scattered
Only bottom feeders
Vultures were all that remained

Nothing would uplift us
Raise our spirits
We all walked out to the cliff
One by one we walked beyond the edge
We fell into a new hope
A new realm
One that no had no mountains aflame
One that would give us rest

No one looked back

Misty – Broken Glass Project

Broken Glass is multimedia art project analyzing the phenomenon of broken glass on city streets and the affect it has on the community, the individual and animals.



Sweet rotting milk, that’s what the steam seeping out of his mouth smelled like.  As the scent traveled through my nose I could feel my eyes watering, my throat tightening, my lip curling… Holding back my throat’s instinctual vomit spasm I pushed him away by opening my right hand on his chest, an obvious body stop sign. At this point, both of his hands were grabbing each arms of my coat and he pulled me closer to him. He stuck out his tongue, I turned away in disgust searching for any signs of life through the windshield of an old, 2-toned Chevy Nova.

He’s another Painter. 

A few months ago I was in a alley with a man that smelled like paint, white and blue stains on his pants, dusty and dirty Timberland boots, greasy hair and an appetite for a dish I do not serve.  I had just finished with another client in a motel and had walked a block south, and this man emerged on the street walking north.  He seemed tired, hands in his pockets, slumped shoulders and I couldn’t find his eyes–I don’t know how else to describe it, I know it was dark, but I couldn’t find a even a hint of a glisten as I watched him walk past.

“Looking for some company?” I said as he walked past.

He looked at me as he continued to walk away and I said, “venga conmigo papi”, and to this he smiled and slowly began walking towards me.  Needless to say, I was in a dimly lit alley with the Painter, my back against a concrete wall, he grabbed my hands and stretched my arms above my head pushing them to the wall.  He used his fingertips to press into me starting at my wrists and at a steady pace went down my arms, to the side of my breasts where he began to claw with his nails, continued down and used his thumbs to push hard into my ribs and as soon as he reach my waist he grabbed hard and twisted in opposite directions, his hands full of my flesh.  It was at this moment I knew I had to escape.  Till this point, I’ve been fortunate not to have many encounters with violent individuals, it was just a matter of time until the odds were no longer in my favor………

Sweet rotting milk was also a Painter. His eyes were lacking in warmth, his whole body throbbed with anticipation, his breath was even. I used my eyes to search and my free hand to find something, anything to use.  The car was filthy, I felt rocks and lint, a sticky plastic paper piece, and some kind of cloth. Finally, I felt something smooth, cool and round.  I grabbed it and hit him as hard as I could, I think I caught his ear.  Then, again, this time I saw an empty travel mug in my hand as I struck him with it near his right eye.  He growled and yelled as he pulled back his body back and brought his hands to his face.  I opened the car door and fell out backwards onto the sidewalk without ever taking my eyes off him.  Mug still in my hand, I stood up, crouched down and threw it at him.

“I don’t play like that!” I roared, “F***ing psycho, don’t ever f***ing come back, I’ll have you killed” I backed away fast, brushing a discarded glass bottle with the side of my foot and stumbled slightly.  I quickly turned to pick it up and chucked it at his car…

It is often said that one person’s trash is another’s treasure.  In a low-income, urban setting, trash can become a tool for survival in many different ways.



As always, feedback is greatly appreciated!

Prelude – Live Journal Post

This is from an old Live Journal post I did in High School. It’s a mixture of free thought exercises and a free verse poem.  I’ve trashed over 500 pages of written work that I did from the time I was 13 until about 23.  That’s ten years gone! But I try not to regret  my decision, it was a lesson learned as well as a symbolic expulsion of that difficult time in my life.  Here is one of the few surviving pieces of that time… Let me know what you think! ^_^


[26 Dec 2002|09:33am]

I ran as fast as I could. The cold, wet tears shedding from God (God: the entire embodiment of humanity, not a sole being, but a concept of unity and intuition; that which is of every mind, body, spirit and that of which we do not know of every human being that ever existed, does exist and will exist) sting my eyes and soak my garments making my speed slower as my weight becomes heavier. All I am aware of is my heart beating like a drum being hit by an ecstatic child. All I am aware of is the pounding of my heavy, wet, slippery footsteps. All I am aware of is my breathing, my panting, my vain attempt at attaining oxygen for my survival on this harsh, unfair planet.

I slipped half-way down the hill, my body tumbling down the brown, black, green mush which stained my clothes. I held onto my talisman as I fell in fear that this ancient relic would be lost to an ignoramus. My head hit hard on the ground making the already dark world dimmer. I could not see for what felt like five minutes. I know it could not have been that long for if it was, I would not be here reflecting on the event. I heard his angry voice. I rapidly rose off of the ground and continued running.

All of my current life was taken by my wanting of this. My wanting of what is happening now was all I ever dreamed about. Now that it has finally come to pass, all my thoughts are encompassed with regret. There is no comfort in thinking about the past or the future. I need to survive in order to suffer and fight that suffering in order to realize that all my choices were for the greater good…and bad. I know I play some role in this game. I want to do my job well, and if that requires pain then I shall do it. It is my destiny. I have not a choice in everything I do and I know exactly what must be done.

Lightning strikes. I hope it killed him. From this frightened valley I can see I am coming closer to the woods. I take one look back, he is only feet away from capturing me…